I write to you because I am beginning to have doubts about your beer. You see, in a moment of weakness, several months ago, I enjoyed Pabst Blue Ribbon with the famed editor of a literary journal based in San Francisco. However, since I have moved to Brooklyn, I have, at the urging of a few of my readers (I am a writer whose work appears in newspapers and strange magazines, as well as one of these hip new blogs that all the kids are talking about), started to realize that I may have been led astray in my beverage drinking decisions. The famed editor in question now refers to me as “a PBR addict” and I have begun to have strange dreams involving your tall cans. In my dreams, the cans talk to me and are, indeed, taller than me. And at six foot two, I’m a pretty tall guy. So this is somewhat traumatic. The cans tell me that I must drink the beer inside their cans or recite Rod McKuen’s poetry. Of course, I always select the former decision. After all, wouldn’t you?

Well, of course, you would. You’re the chairman of the Pabst Brewing Company. But think of me: a casual and overly imaginative consumer of beer. Put yourself in my place!

Because of this, I’m under a certain phantasmagoric duress. Your crazy old-school “blue ribbon” logo doesn’t help matters. It makes me think that I’ve won something, when the victory is likely yours. I’ve always thought that America is the place where everyone’s a winner. But how am I winning, Bernard, when I drink a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon? Please tell me.

And so, Bernard, we now find ourselves at an impasse. I need some additional faith from you, your company, and your beer — if I am to carry on drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Now I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt here. Perhaps there have been a few bad cans. Perhaps I have been too trusting of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Perhaps I have been drinking it the wrong way.

But I need to know that you mean business. Which is why I am suggesting that you send me a large package, gratis, containing the finest specimens of your beer, so that I might better comprehend your product and possibly rediscover the Pabst magic. I promise to refrigerate whatever you send me, Bernard. And if you give me additional drinking instructions, I’ll follow them to the letter.

I have every faith that the two of us can come to some arrangement along these lines which might allow me to better understand your beer. But for now, I must place any future Pabst drinking in abeyance, unless you can offer a compelling reason (or exemplar) for me to carry on through the long and lonely nights.